I slice the apple and divide it between the plates. When I bring dinner to the table, Arthur is setting down two full glasses. I sit in the chair he pulls out for me, and he takes the seat beside mine.
Now that we’re both sitting, a quiet settles in the spacious kitchen and I’m suddenly self-conscious of the simple meal I’ve produced. Grilled cheese and fruit is fine for a Saturday afternoon with Sam, but Arthur is a grown man. This is probably little more than a snack to him.
“It’s not much,” I hedge, pushing my hair behind my ear. “But I hope you?—”
“It’s perfect,” he insists, sincerely. And with that simple reassurance, I relax.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ARTHUR
“What’syour favourite thing about your condo?”
The fact that you’re in it, I think, which feels like a dangerous thought to have this early. Thankfully, my mouth is full of the best sandwich I’ve ever tasted, and that buys me a few precious seconds to come up with a less unhinged answer.
“I don’t know.” I drain the rest of the wine in my glass. “The location, I guess.”
Her full lips flatten into a line. “That’s a terrible answer.” She looks genuinely disappointed, and I can’t help laughing.
“What is it with you and favourites?” I ask.
“A person needs favourites,” she says seriously. “It makes life more fun. You think about a place, or a moment, or anything at all, and you pick the part of it that makes you happiest.”
“So you have favourites for everything.”
“Obviously.”
“Everything,” I repeat.
“Try me.”
I roll the empty wineglass slowly between my fingers,turning it by the stem. It probably looks like I’m thinking hard, but really it’s just an excuse to keep looking at her. She looks even more beautiful than she did when she walked into that snooty restaurant. Her carefully styled hair has softened, a few loose strands framing her face. She’s leaning back in her chair now, legs crossed beneath the table, relaxed and content.
And the quiet satisfaction that hits me then takes me by surprise. Because she looks happy here, in my home. And I like that far more than I should.
“Favourite day of the week.”
“Saturday, obviously.”
“Why is that obvious?”
“Because it’s the first day of the weekend. There are no obligations,” she says, like she’s explaining gravity. “I can relax, drink coffee, do laundry. Sometimes Sam and I go to the farmer’s market for hot chocolate and people watching.”
“You could do all of that on Sunday,” I point out.
She scrunches up her nose. “Nope. I teach aquafitness on Sundays. And I have to do grocery shopping and food prep for the week. Plus, there’s the low level anxiety of another work week starting. Completely different vibe. Saturdays reign supreme.”
I can’t argue with her logic, so I don’t. “Favourite ice cream.”
“Cookie dough.”
I make a face but wisely keep my opinion to myself. “Favourite holiday.”
“Easter.”
My reaction must be obvious because she tilts her head. “What?”
“Nothing. I just assumed you’d say Christmas. You have kind of a manic elf energy.”
